Archives For
lol

A few years ago Diddy changed his rap name to Diddy – Dirty Money. I think the implication was that he now had a crew. However, his crew was never seen. His verses were still ghostwritten by better rappers and other people wrote his songs, but hey, that’s true with Taylor Swift and Miley Cyrus too. Who can blame the guy?

His big hit from his album Last Train to Paris was a ditty called “Coming Home”. Skyler Gray sang the hook, but for reasons I’ve never understood she is inexplicably played by two actresses in the video. Anyway, the first time I heard the song I thought, “hey, I can make that really gross.” I did. I hacked the acapella and removed a few words and replaced them with moans. I put the parody up on YouTube and it was off to the races. Then, DMCA and dumb record labels likely illegally removed the parody.

I always thought the video was a beautiful celebration of life and got some musicians together to help me cover the song (to avoid the DMCA issues) and the video is now back on YouTube and the song is available on iTunes, Amazon, and Bandcamp.

Listen people, Facebook was a brilliant concept. If the wheels ever come off and Facebook becomes the next MySpace or Friendster it will be because they long ago abandoned the simple utility it used to provide: a place to keep the party with your friends going online. All the moves towards forcing everyone to be public and trying to shove friendship with Tide laundry detergent or Clorox bleach down our throats just ruin the simple beauty of marveling over your buddy’s drunk photo from the night before.

Facebook has the cash to sustain itself forever and they probably will roll out Look Back movies in 3D for the twentieth anniversary, but it’s not going to hold the same place in the hearts of the next generation. They are putting their stupidity somewhere “safer” (Snapchat), recognizing that Mark Zuckerberg – for all his Millennial hubris and idealism – is really just a money hungry sellout. Which is fine, I advocate selling out. If I’d made Facebook I’d be on Ko Phi Phi island right now chilling out and not still sitting as CEO of Facebook in San Francisco. Facebook is positioned to be the white pages of the internet. That’s fine, but it’s about as exciting as, well, the white pages.

Furthering this, Facebook’s hunger for your real name and lack of privacy is going to be the other nail in their coffin. A friend changed her name to some hybrid of her first and middle name while applying to jobs. As my social network approaches it’s thirties this is increasingly common. Total fake names, hybrid names, names with prefixes and suffixes are probably 40% of my friends now. This is rational behavior by Facebook users in my opinion. My friend then tried to change it to something slightly closer to her real name and Facebook deactivated her account until she provided a government issued ID. Now her Facebook can only use her full first, middle, and last names. She’s a doctor. She’s been using Facebook since 2004 and used it as intended. It’s strange to me that Facebook doesn’t see that by following this path they’re making it impossible for old people (ie, not college kids) to comfortably keep their own Facebook account as they transition to later stages of life because a Facebook account tied to your name is as dangerous as having a felony on your record. One drunk photo from ten years ago can ruin a teacher’s career because some overly pious parent might hunt the teacher down and throw a shit-fit about it.

A lot of this hit me while watching everyone’s look back videos. Some were beautiful, but most found ways to surface really awkward exes or moments from the last ten years. I watched mine and decided I could do better. I’ve since seen funnier parodies and folks who did a better job than I did, but I’m not going to link to them because this isn’t their cool website.

I’d love to see yours though. Feel free to post a link and I’ll watch and laugh.

Share this:

I was born in 1982. I don’t really need any signs to tell me I was born in the 80’s. One day though, I might. I can already tell my mental acuity is declining and if I look at some of the folks I know who were born in the 70’s I can clearly see it’s not going to get any better. Don’t even get me started about people born in the 60’s.

The 80’s were the decade of Alf, Ronald Reagan, Marty McFly, and more. It’s really, really hard to pick and choose only ten signs that someone was an 80’s baby. There was He-Man, Thundercats, Miami Vice, crimped hair, and more cocaine than something that has a lot of cocaine. Still, I promised you something awesome everyday and, though I regularly fail at that, I am going to succeed today. After much consideration, research, and thought here are the 10 Signs You Were Born in the 1980’s.

1. Your birthday has 1980 in it.

2. Your birthday has 1981 in it.

3. Your birthday has 1982 in it.

4. Your birthday has 1983 in it.

5. Your birthday has 1984 in it.

6. Your birthday has 1985 in it.

7. Your birthday has 1986 in it.

8. Your birthday has 1987 in it.

9. Your birthday has 1988 in it.

10. Your birthday has 1989 in it.

Phew. I never thought we’d make it. There it is. That’s the definitive list. I know, some people wanted Joey Lawrence to make an appearance, but he didn’t even crack the top 12. Here are two honorable mentions:

1. 11. Your birthday has 1990 in it.

1. 12. Your birthday has 1979 in it.

Let’s be real, if you were born in 1990 it was still the 80’s. The 90’s didn’t start until Ice Ice Baby came out. You almost count. You can be a hashtag: #honorablemention

Just because I’m nice, here’s Joey Lawrence. Like, whoa.

Share this:

A few weeks ago, my business travel met with crazy weather and mixed up airline schedules leaving me stranded. As luck would have it, Breaking Bad creator Vince Gilligan was stuck in the same mess. So, in the Duluth airport (DLH for all my airport code aficionados out there!) we shared a cocktail or three while we waited for the airline to fix the ailerons on our plane. Vince got a little tipsy and shared the ending of Breaking Bad with me.

I was hoping that Breaking Bad would end with something provocative like Skyler, Jesse, and Walt Jr. getting shot. The only thing left for Walt to do would be to get on his boat and drive himself and their bodies into a hurricane. Walt Jr. would, of course, live and grow up to become a mute lumberjack.

To me, that would be a great ending. However, Vince blew me away with the real ending. This will serve as your final spoiler alert. What I’m sharing will likely ruin the ending, but if you just can’t wait for the end of Breaking Bad to air then read on. I took notes on my phone as best as I could while Vince talked and I think sharing them with you without much editing is the best way to do this.

In the penultimate scene, Walt kills everyone with his trunk Gatling gun. For some reason Skyler, Pinkman, Saul, Junior, his daughter, etc are all together at some event with Todd and his uncle and their henchmen. (SD note: Vince kept some secrets, I don’t know what the event is.) Walter starts killing them. The dust clears and they are all dead. Then he kills Skyler again. Just to be sure because, Jesus, after that editorial she wrote someone had to fucking shut her up for good. (SD note: Vince’s words, not mine.)

Satisfied, Walt puts on his Heisenberg hat. It had fallen to the ground during the firefight. He notices something. He’s dripping blood and cancer juice all over the hat. He’s been shot too. He crumples to the ground dying of cancer and bullet. Fade to black.

The epilogue begins just as you think there’s nothing left. After a few seconds of black, we get a jump cut to a bustling fast food restaurant. Imagine an 80s McDonald’s that’s been turned into some other franchise of fast food restaurant. Families eating shitty fast food. Kids licking the balls in the play area ball pit and vomiting and giving other kids kid diseases like push pop mouth and whatnot.

Some pimply-faced stoner chick is taking drive through orders. The restaurant eventually closes. The camera weaves through the restaurant to the back managers office. The pimply-faced stoner chick locks the doors and heads back to the office. She knocks. “We’re all locked up Mr. Black.” Cut to…

WALT! He’s alive and we never find out why because the show is literary and wants you to think. It’s not going to just explain everything for you. Walt’s name tag says: Mr. Black. (SD note: OH SHIT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS HE HAS A NEW IDENTITY! MR. BLACK! THE OPPOSITE OF WHITE! WILL THIS SHOW EVER STOP BEING SO LITERARY? )

The shadows are all on Walt making him look ominous. He says, “Good. Now we can really cook.” (SD note: He probably means meth, not fast food.) (SD note: OH SHIT THE STONER CHICK WAS A FORMER STUDENT OF HIS AND IS HIS NEW PROTEGE.)

They enter a secret passage in the floor to an awesome meth lab. Better than any meth lab ever. Like the lab in Despicable Me crossed with Dexter’s Laboratory (SD note: Vince’s words, not mine). They cook some meth. It’s lightsaber blue just like it should be. Walt smiles.

Cut to the exterior of the fast food restaurant and the big glowing sign: HEISENBURGER. Camera pulls out to Alburquerque and then the world.

END TITLES AND THAT MUSIC THEY ALWAYS PLAY AT THE END TITLES.

As you can imagine, I cried the entire rest of the time we drank and for the entire flight. Vince just writes the most incredible TV.

Oh wait! There was a post credits scene!

Cut to Hank. Gurgling blood and his hand bursting through the desert soil. He’s like (right into the camera), “I’ll be back.” A Heisenburger wrapper blows into his face and he dies again.

Share this:

Last week Miley Cyrus straight up changed my life with “Wrecking Ball”. I’m not entirely sure if her latest music videos are sexy or repulsing, but I have a strange type of boner for her lately that defies all classification (at least when referenced against the many classes of boner I’ve already experienced). She only added to that boner today by releasing a new single where she sings about being high on Percoset and being – surprise – in the club while wearing the sexiest Michael Jordan jerseys I’ve ever seen. Again, weird boners abounding. She’s also wearing shades and I can only assume that she won’t stop and is probably also popping mollies. In other words: art.

While the visuals are hot and the lyrics on the hook are provocative because everyone remembers Miley as a cute little kid and not the strong sexual and drug icon she has become, the song “23” is straight up garbage with near retarded rap verses from Wiz Khalifah and Juicy J. They’re likely included because rapping like you can’t read or speak at better than a 3rd grade level came in with Chief Keef and is, apparently, still a thing. Miley somehow transcends all of this and (like a wrecking ball) takes over the entire song.

Now, since Miley has been in my head all week, I decided to do my version of her song “Wrecking Ball”. Chicks are always being uncool and getting up in my business for things like sending dick pics to their friends via Twitter and cheating on them and stuff, so I decided to write a new version called “Wrecking Balls”. It’s all about when some chick is being uncool about you tongue kissing her mother and she bursts in and straight up wrecks your balls.

In filming this masterpiece I attached two hop balls (those balls that look like exercise balls, but are for kids not yuppies and have a handle for bouncing around) wrapped in sheets to chains hanging from the ceiling. Then I brought in Vanessa to repeatedly hit me in the balls with stuff. Here’s the things I learned:

A titanium cup is a great invention and way better than the junky plastic thing I wore in high school while playing football.

Holy shit is it tiring and painful to swing around on a wrecking ball like that. The chain dried out my skin like crazy. I’m not some pussy who keeps his hands un-callused either. I’m a red blooded American man who chops down trees just because and I was lathering my hands with shea butter for three days just to get them back to regular callused-ness. My back, biceps, triceps, lats, quads, and abs got a workout I completely didn’t expect. Muscles I hadn’t used since the Clinton administration roared in frustration as I woke them from their slumber. The following morning as I limped to the bathroom to pop my Prilosec OTC, I marveled at the kind of shape Miley must be in to be able to handle that kind of workout. I mean, I’m a man. She’s just a cute little girl who plays Hannah Montana.

Enough about me. Watch the video on YouTube and drop a comment letting me know how some girl wrecked your balls. Ben Nissen from HapHazardFilms shot it. Go check his stuff and follow his various channels. Vanessa Ceron turned in a killer performance busting my balls. Go give her some love so she’s not so mean in the future. And hell, if all this isn’t enough to convince you to watch it, Evan Longoria is a professional athlete and he has no idea why our video isn’t the biggest thing in the world yet. That’s pretty convincing. I mean, he’s in the fucking playoffs.

Share this:

You are killing it this week. You’re fucking killing it. I understand. I really do. The thing is, by Wednesday you’ve run into an endless stream of morons, mouth breathers, and double morons and they are screwing the whole thing up. I’m here to say, “don’t you let them!”

Fuck those motherfuckers. You’re awesome and if they’re not down with that they can pull to the side and suck trash/exhaust as you blow past them literally doing a metaphorical 200 mph while littering Taco Bell wrappers from the last few weeks of awesome meals you’ve consumed out the window and straight up into their windshield area.

I don’t advocate actual littering (duh), but literally metaphorically littering on someone who is harshing your shit is totally an ace move in 2013. Actual littering is not. That would be cool if you time machined back to 1964. The whole world was a trash bin back then (according to the old Earth Day book that I had in 2nd grade from The Scholastic Book Club). Do they still have the Scholastic Book Club? Who didn’t love that monthly flyer? I’ll tell you who: the fucking idiots ruining your week who probably can’t even read.

So what do you do? Let them ruin your week? Fuck no. Grow up. Say a prayer. You need serenity and we have the prayer to get you there. That rhymed on accident, but it’s probably due more to the fact that I am a writing god and on some 10,000 hour Malcolm Gladwell shit right now and when I write it just comes out genius and I don’t even have to contemplate than dumb luck. Even if it was dumb luck, they say you make your own luck. Either way, my train of awesome is full steam ahead Back to the Future III-style. Hill Valley 1985 or I’m going straight into Clayton’s Revine. Boom.

Anyway. Morning, noon, night, fourth meal, whenever this is the prayer that will life you up:

God grant me the serenity to kick some motherfucking ass today and karate chop the shit out of anyone slowing down my train of awesome.

Rinse and repeat until Friday.

Share this:

Our crack team of demographic wizards and math nerds surveyed everyone in the United States of America today. Everyone. We tried to get to territories like Guam and Puerto Rico (just to up the scientific-ness of our results), but those results were statistically invalid. We would never mislead or misuse statistics just because we never want to see Lebron James win a playoff series again. After speaking with millions of Americans today we ended up with a clear map that really shows how America feels about tonight’s matchup between the Miami Heat and the Indiana Pacers.

Lebron James is obviously the second coming of Michael Jordan and his/the NBA’s marketing team have gone to great lengths to try and make the preening, self-indulgent “King” James likable in the same way Jordan was. He appears in Samsung ads with his kids. He does a Harlem Shake video with his teammates. Lebron James isn’t a diva. He’s just a blue-collar guy like you and me. Except it’s a red collar. (Because he’s on the Heat.)

Our research shows that America isn’t buying it. America knows the NBA is desperate to have at least one global superstar in the NBA Finals and after Carmelo Anthony, Kevin Durant, Blake Griffin, Chris Paul, Derrick Rose, and every other name superstar decided to lose early. They know the NBA has to be desperate for Lebron to get a ring. No one cares about Tim Duncan or that guy who was married to Eva Longoria. America smells this and they have decided to throw in with the Indiana Pacers to spite Stern and Lebron James.

We wish both teams well, but the here’s hoping Lebron ties his shoe laces together and trips on the opening tip-off.

Share this:

I’m out driving my sick new whip in the snow today and it was icing pretty badly out and, naturally, my mind wandered to power sliding around some turns on the way to Taco Bell. Now, I’m no Ryan Gosling’s character in Drive, but I execute basic driving maneuvers like “The Right Turn” and “The Merge At Speed” (this is surprisingly complex judging from how many people do not understand that the purpose of the on-ramp is to accelerate to the speed of traffic on the highway so as to merge seamlessly) with ease. I consider “The Powerslide” to also be in my repertoire.

I came to a beautiful curve in the road that banked nicely and threw down. The car started to slide and then abruptly corrected itself. Dash lights flashing and warning me that traction control was kicking in. Fuck that. How are you supposed to power-slide around turns like a boss if traction control keeps kicking in and ruining everything?

Name one man to ever pick up a fine lady without power-sliding right in her face.

Ben drove his horse and buggy drunk all the time (It was a different time. Back then this was considered “hilarious” and “de rigueur” and “boss-like”) and was ALWAYS power-sliding and doing donuts all over the place like a fucking boss in front of mad wenches, in front of mad pubs and all the bros were super pissed because, as I read on Wikipedia, they were totally jealous of his diplomatic immunity and thought it was bullshit.

Head on over to Wikipedia and see for yourself or better yet, because I’m nice like that and saved you the time just peep this rad screen capture.

And there you have it folks. No excuses. No traction control. Do it Franklin style today.

Share this:

Winter sucks, but for some reason I love shoveling in the middle of the night. I think the neighbors probably hate me, but whatever. They let their pug out every time I let my dogs out (now you know who let the dogs out) and then my dogs get all distracted and can’t go potty. And man, it’s freezing cold so I just want them to go, go, go. I sit there and sing to them. I talk like a baby-wayby. I pray to my lord and savior Jesus Christ and every other diety including, but not limited to Shiva and Majin Buu that they will just go god-damn-motherfucking pee pee and poo poo because I am selfish and don’t want to freeze anymore. I also don’t want to clean up anymore poopy poo in the house and really don’t want to be awakened again by a dog peeing on my head. (That’s a whole other rant.)

I pray and pray and right about the time I’m closing with an amen and well before my dogs are helicoptering into poop squats, the light on my neighbor’s porch always flips on and the door slides open and Super Distracto Pug 3000 comes snorting outside. It’s a cute, tubby little dog that they feed doughnuts and pastries which get left in the yard sometimes. This is to my dog’s delight and my dismay, but it’s sort of what I imagine the Israelites must have felt when they were wandering around picking up manna off the ground. “Oh look, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat”, an Israelite would say, “God left us some Krispy Kreme’s this morning and Jim Cramer said Krispy Kreme was a solid stock this month so we better eat up and help support those fools that took his advice.” Think about it. How badass would it be to just wander around the lawn picking up breakfast bread from God? Seriously though does it always have to come out when I’m out taking my dogs out? (Side note: I think doughnut poop must be delicious because it’s like crack to my crackhead dogs who eat it anytime they can.)

And so I shoveled. I did my driveway, front stoop, back porch, a good portion of the street, and for good measure some of the grass. So who’s the champ now?! (Not the people’s champ either. As an educated American knows that’s Dwayne The Rock Johnson. He’s also the reigning WWE Champion after beating CM Punk this week. No really.)

If you’re still awake right now go catch some snowflakes too. That’s as American and Apple Pie and Ice Cream and in this economy considerably more affordable for the average American. It’ll make you feel alive mostly because the snow is probably filled with jet fuel and global warming juices that are horrible for your insides and will give you bowl cancer, but not for decades so do it anyway. And make sure to take HDR cellphone pictures and share them with the world on your stupid blog that no one reads like some weird self paparazzi-ing sycophant who doesn’t post their blown-out and weirdly exposed/saturated photos to Instagram like a well adjusted modern man. But the thing is Instagam is just another annoying thing to check and maintain and I’d rather be out catching snowflakes in my mouth than posting One Direction memes and pictures of my dinner (snowflakes) to yet another site while trying to accumulate the most hearts. It’s just stressful to have another place where I’m trying to get attention and likes and deliver high quality content to my fans.

So grab your shovel. It’s the middle of the night but you’re currently under employed. Aren’t you? You are. You don’t have to get up early tomorrow, it’s Saturday. Grab your Saturday by the horns and start it right now at 4:30AM CST and then sleep through most of the rest of it after you’re done. Burn off the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, Crunchwrap Supreme, Mountain Dew Baja Blast Slurpee (probably not called that because 7-Eleven owns the trademark, but that’s basically what it is), Medium Baja Blast Mountain Dew (I didn’t know if the Slurpee one was going to be any good so I ordered a backup. It wasn’t good. It was fucking awesome. But I drank them at midnight. Whoops.), and Cookie Sandwich that you had earlier. (I might have been lying about snowflakes being my dinner.)

This weekend wake your neighbors up and wake up your soul. Remember what Kid President said: “Fuck you Robert Frost.” Goodnight.

Tonight while watching Homeland, a few of the local police descended on my back yard with flashlights….freaking me the eff out.

I cautiously opened the back door and asked what was going on.

Police: “Sir, have you seen anything strange tonight. Your neighbors reported that a black was wandering through the neighborhood.”

Me: (thinking, did you really just say that?) “I’m sorry, what?”

Police: “A male black with a red sweatshirt knocked on your neighbors door and asked for a loaf of bread. We followed his footprints (in the snow) into your backyard.”

Me: (you know, terrified) “Umm…no… I haven’t seen anything like that. Those are actually probably my footprints. I have dogs that I walk out there.”

Police: “Well, check all your doors and windows and make sure they’re locked.”

Me: “Uh…ok. Thanks officer. Have a good night.”

They wandered off and I went to get a Slurpee and figured that I needed to be prepared in case the suspect tried to come back to my house and finish what he started at the neighbors. So I picked up this little surprise and left it out front just in case.

Dan, it’s time for you to man up. Things have gotten bad. But you’re walking around thinking they’re fine. Sure, you might not be the best husband, but you couldn’t possibly be the worst. You’re down there though. How else to explain this desperate message scrawled, presumably by Mrs. Dan, on the wall of Union Station in Chicago?

Nine years, Dan. NINE YEARS! The time for neglect is over. You’re coming up on ten years! Is it a mistress Dan? Are you focusing too much on your career? Are you gambling too much or spending too many nights getting lap dances instead of tending to your wife? Whatever the case, Dan, there’s still time. The writing is on the wall. Literally. Read it! Stop the neglect! I’m rooting for you.

I am ready to help in any way we can, just drop me a line and I’ll use the powers of the Internet to fix your marriage. If you’re still skeptical about the state of Dan’s marriage examine the evidence in full here.